


it's their own fault for being timeless

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Deepthroating, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Emetophobia (mentioned), Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Masochism, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Rope Bondage, Sadism, Shibari, Size Kink, Submissive Elias Bouchard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Aspiring king of a ruined world in the streets, fucktoy in the sheets.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 1
Kudos: 160





	it's their own fault for being timeless

Peter makes it most of the way through the shibari pattern when Elias gets violent. He’d agreed to this, of course, but actually being restrained kicks some animal part of his brain into action, and he fights.

Peter stops, sighs heavily, and pins Elias facedown to the bed. Peter isn’t as hulking as some of his ancestors, but he’s still much bigger than Elias, and one palm on the back of his head and the other on his arse is enough to restrain him until he finishes his tantrum.

Once he’s exhausted his physical reaction and gone pliant again, Peter hauls Elias back upright and finishes the pattern.

Fully immobilized, Elias’ eyes flare again. He can’t struggle against the rope without hurting himself, but he can still speak.

“Does this make you feel powerful, Peter?” Elias growls, as Peter arranges him on the bed like a centerpiece. “Does it make you feel  _ accomplished _ , to have convinced me to—?”

Peter laughs, low in his throat. “Don’t blame me, Elias. We’re doing this because you need it, not me.”

As soon as Elias opens his mouth to retort, Peter whirls on him, smacking him  _ hard _ across the face.

Elias sees stars, too startled to cry out. In the ensuing moment of shock, Peter clips something heavy and leather around his face. He assumes it’s a blindfold, until Peter grabs his chin to force his mouth open and slips the ring gag between his lips.

“Much better,” Peter says, raising his voice to be heard over Elias’ offended wail.

There’s a sharp bite of pain as Elias twists himself too violently, and the rope tears into his skin. He can feel himself drooling through the gag. It’s disgusting.  _ Humiliating. _

Peter undresses from the waist down slowly and deliberately. Belt, trousers, underwear, and finally he climbs onto the bed, shoves Elias onto his back and slips his cock through the gag, into Elias’ mouth.

It’s not comfortable. Elias shuts his eyes, but he can still See, always Seeing, always Watching. He Watches as Peter  _ uses _ him, not like a partner, not like a meal, but like a toy, and there’s nothing Elias can do about it.

Peter speaks as he fucks Elias’ gagged mouth; a low, constant rumble of praise and derisiveness both. Elias can’t focus on the words, but he hears the intent. Elias is a good boy, a good toy, just a hole to fuck, just a sweet, wet orfice for Peter’s cock.

(Later, he might hate himself for enjoying this so deeply, for sacrificing his control so completely. But Peter is right—he does need this. The weight of the crown becomes so exhausting, sometimes.) 

Just as Elias has acclimatized himself to the intrusion, Peter settles his weight on his haunches, grabbing Elias by the back of the head, pulling him up onto Peter’s cock.

Elias wishes he had tested this body’s gag reflex before he’d chosen it—that’s the last coherent thought he manages before his mind is consumed with the desperate realization that he’s suffocating.

Peter’s cock presses into the back of his throat. Elias can’t breathe around it—his throat is too busy spasming, trying to expel the intrusion. Tears spring to his eyes and roll down his cheeks, half reflex and half terror.

He’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick, and choke on it, and suffocate—

Peter comes down the back of Elias’ throat, and withdraws.

As soon as his weight isn’t pinning Elias flat to the bed, Elias throws himself sideways, careless of the rope burn singing pain across his skin, and hangs over the side of the bed, letting come and bile drip from his mouth.

He’s crying. He only realizes he’s crying when he finds himself untied and ungagged, wrapped in a blanket.

Peter is putting plasters on the places where the rope tore into Elias’ skin. He’s talking, quietly and amiably, about nothing in particular.

Elias leans against Peter’s chest. Peter smooths a thumb across Elias’ cheek, brushing away a tear.

Peter will leave as soon as he’s done the bare minimum of aftercare, feeding as he goes on Elias’ loneliness.

But for now, he’s here. That might be enough.


End file.
